Chapter 10
His car is parked on the side of the road about half a block away, and we get in, neither of us speaking a word, our détente from this morning seemingly forgotten.
I’m sure (well, I hope) we’ll eventually get past the I Don’t Know How to Interact with You stage of this rekindled friendship, but every interaction seems to need a warm-up period.
“We have to swing by my mom’s place first,” he says, buckling in. “I just have to run in, so you can wait in the car.” He puts the car in reverse, and I am momentarily stunned as he rests his right arm behind my headrest, looking backward as he pulls out of the spot. (Why is that hot?)
I don’t regain my ability to speak until we’re headed down the street.
“Wait, sorry. She moved?”
“Yeah,” he says, turning the radio on low as we hit a red light. He never could drive in silence. “They sold their house in Connecticut, and she’s working out of Boston now. Not taking on as many clients. Living in a much smaller place, outside of Boston—Canton. Fifteen-minute drive from the IKEA.”
I think that was more information than Harrison has willingly volunteered in…five years? In the hope he’ll keep talking to fill the silence, I don’t say anything.
That backfires when we spend the next thirty seconds in silence.
“And what are you dropping off ?” I finally ask.
He turns toward the tote bag he threw in the back seat. “Dinner.”
I pause.
I clear my throat.
“What’d ya make?”
“Pasta,” he says.
We don’t speak for the entire length of Billy Joel’s “Piano Man.”
“Nice song,” I say as it wraps up. Harrison hmms his acknowledgment.
I was kind of hoping now that he and Stephanie are broken up, it would free up his ability to read someone else’s mind.
If my theory that you can only have the ability to silently communicate with one person at a time is true, then why shouldn’t it be me?
After all, it used to be me. Seems like it should be easy to relearn that skill.
Maybe he doesn’t want to. That’s probably one of the boundaries of being Friends with Limitations.
We drive down a road with beautiful homes on both sides, and I focus on that instead.
I rank them as if I had a million dollars to blow on a single-family home for my single person.
A two-story yellow home with several sets of bay windows tops my list. I look it up on Zillow, see the price, then delete the Zillow app from my phone.
After twenty minutes of driving, we enter a new area with lush, green trees everywhere and slow, rolling hills. “Pretty,” I say.
“Blue Hills,” Harrison says. “People ski here during the winter.”
I eye him, and he doesn’t eye me back. “Wish I knew how to ski,” I say, fishing for an offer.
“You should go this winter,” he says. Not the offer I wanted, but fair enough, I guess.
We sit in silence for the next ten minutes.
Finally, we pull into the driveway of a townhome in Canton. It’s cute, a blue building with five or six identical entryways and front patios, all two stories with bay windows and white trim.
“I’ll be right back,” Harrison says, reaching behind me to grab the tote bag. His chest brushes my left arm as he stretches, and shivers run down my body.
I think the problem is I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about intimacy.
Or rather, the fact that I’m not able to have it.
It’s similar to being horny all the time, but not really, because I’m dealing with conflicting desires to have sex and also not to be in pain, which would require me not to have sex.
So, do I want to have sex, or do I not want to have sex?
I don’t know, but the word “sex” appears in my brain a lot.
And thinking about sex all the time has my body so wired, it’s like a minefield.
All he (he as in someone, of course! Could be anyone!) has to do is brush against me and my whole body tenses up in anticipation.
Harrison makes his way to the front door, knocks, and quickly enters a moment later. I fiddle with the car door, tracing the stitching along the leather.
“Emma,” Harrison’s voice calls, muffled through the car windows. He’s waving at me.
I raise my eyebrows, and he motions for me to come out and join him. When I raise my eyebrows even more, he winces and mouths, “Sorry.”
That can only mean one thing.
I look down at my outfit. This is not mom-approved. The frayed edges on these jean shorts are intended to make Harri—to make guys want to tug at the strings. They are not intended to be worn while interacting with a woman who probably doesn’t own a single item of clothing under two hundred dollars.
My thighs burn as I peel them off the leather seat and step into the heat. Harrison cringes for the entire length of time it takes me to reach the front door, and as I walk the last steps, I hiss, “You did not prep me for this.”
“She says it’s rude of me to leave you in the car,” Harrison says, raising his voice at the end as if asking for forgiveness.
I flip my sunglasses up to the top of my head as I brush past him. “You owe me Swedish meatballs.”
The inside of the townhome isn’t what I expect. I never went to Harrison’s family home in Connecticut, but I’d seen it over video calls plenty of times. It was all white walls and plush furniture and expensive artwork and spotless. Professional cleaners and interior designers. Tastefully sterile.
None of those words apply to this home. In the corners of the living room, there are stacked boxes, some cardboard, some plastic.
Some are overflowing as if someone has been digging through them, and the contents are littered throughout the house.
I’ve seen messier apartments, for sure, but this is definitely more chaotic than how this woman typically operates.
It looks like my apartment, actually.
Before I can unpack that, Millie rounds the corner.
“Emma, honey,” she says, reaching out her arms for a hug.
She’s the same woman in so many ways: same sharp haircut and dark waves, same austere expression, same tasteful gold jewelry.
But she’s traded her tailored clothes for yoga pants and a wrinkled button-up, and she’s starting to sprout grays at her roots.
And maybe she’s just stopped getting facials, but the dark circles under her eyes are somewhat jarring.
I step forward and wrap my arms around her. My sunglasses immediately slip out of my hair and clatter to the floor.
“Got them,” Harrison mutters, right as Millie pulls out of my hug, saying, “Oh, I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
I wave my hand. “It’s okay. I bought them at the drugstore.”
“Oh! Didn’t know you could buy sunglasses there.” Millie smiles forcefully with raised eyebrows. There’s an awkward pause that lasts a moment too long.
“They have great stuff,” Harrison says, clearing his throat. “At the drugstore.”
“So, Emma, how have you been?” Millie asks, ignoring him. “It’s been, what, five years since you spoke to Harrison? He didn’t tell me you had decided to come back!”
It takes every ounce of my willpower to keep my jaw from dropping to the floor. Harrison stands behind her, his eyebrows skyrocketing upward and his entire body freezing.[*1]
After Harrison and I parted ways, I didn’t tell my parents anything.
We flew home after graduation, and I cried and cried and cried in my room.
I told them I was sad about leaving college.
They made me a therapy appointment. I’d brush them off when they asked about Harrison, and eventually, they stopped asking.
Did they suspect something happened? Absolutely. But I didn’t want to talk about it.
And I’m a lot closer with my parents than he is with his. Or was, anyway. He only would’ve told his mom if…well, I don’t even know. If things were bad bad.
The sinking feeling in my stomach is so strong my center of gravity seems to shift, making me unsteady on my feet and light in the head.
Millie clears her throat.
“Uh—” I choke out, “Yes, I’ve been in Florida for the last five years! Just moved back here about two weeks ago.”
Millie gives me an mmm that is startlingly similar to the mmm Harrison uses to acknowledge statements, but it has a level of condescension that isn’t in Harrison’s vocabulary.
“Two weeks ago!” she repeats with false enthusiasm. “Well, come on in. I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee.”
“Mom, do you have oat milk?” Harrison asks. They’re still discussing milk alternatives as they walk into the kitchen.
I take the opportunity to look around more closely.
The television is on, local news playing on mute.
There’s a blanket crumpled up on the couch, and when I brush my fingers over it, it’s still warm.
There are a couple of cups on the coffee table, none of which are empty, none of which are set on coasters, which seems alarming because (a) this looks like real wood, and (b) Millie is definitely a “coaster, please” kind of woman. Used to be, anyway.
The only decor in sight is a four-by-six-inch framed photo of Harrison and Millie twenty-some years ago.
Harrison looks six or seven in the photo, a tiny backpack slung over his tiny shoulders.
His hair sticks up every which way, almost distracting me from the enormous grin, so big it erases his cheeks.
Based on the navy blue polo shirt and straight-out-of-the-box shoes, this is a first day of school photo.
Millie crouches next to him, both arms wrapped around him, her head resting on top of his.
“Em?” Harrison says. I turn around, and he’s holding a steaming mug out for me.
“Thanks,” I murmur, bringing it to my face and gently blowing away the steam.
“She’s grabbing us a snack.” Harrison looks back at the kitchen, then turns to me and whispers, “I’m so sorry. I really just intended to drop off the food and leave. I owe you one.”
“Why are you driving half an hour to bring her dinner?” I ask. He doesn’t answer. “And since when did you tell your mom…everything?”